so terribly out. At all events, he had scolded her savagely, and then he whipped Adolphe; beat him, oh! dreadfully, regardless of his mother's tears and entreaties, because the dear little fellow had innocently walked upon one of his angular, ugly flower-beds.

Of course, my brother rushed chivalrously to the rescue of his Dulcinea. Mr. Robert Rushton could neither eat nor sleep, so impatient was he to go where duty called him. Sappingwood had hardly time to sleek up the ponies, varnish his own immaculate boots, or trim his moustache, before Robert was equipped for immediate departure.

Grandma, with her head out of the window, squeaked out in vain to know where he was going. My brother kissed his hand to her, and dashed along the bending road, with glittering wheels, and bounding heart. Papa stepped out upon the balcony, and smiled, and waved his adieu to this gallant knight of modern times.

When my brother asked for Therese at Mr. Blanton's inhospitable door, he was informed that she had denied herself to all visitors for some days. Robert gave his card to the man, and then a side-door was opened, and Therese came running to him with glowing cheeks, and moistened eyes. My brother drew her proudly to him; she blushed, and clung to his arm; and then dropping her lids, she asked "if light words could part them now ;" and showed him into her own fairy sittingroom. Here Robert took her to his bosom, and she burst into tears, with her head upon his shoulder. Robert declared to me, in confidence, that at that moment he not only felt three feet taller, but he felt like a giant-a very happy, illustrious, all-conquering giant, intent upon the blood of an Englishman (Blanton). Adolphe came in, looking shy, but pleased, and very soon began to cling to Robert too.

No dear little exuberant coquette was ever more completely subdued than was Therese by Blanton's barbarity. All the world had smiled upon this little woman, for she had smiled upon all the world. Nobody could have the cruelty to wound her, for she was always so delicate and kind. She was not only made for summer weather, but she carried summer sunshine ever in her bosom. Her presence was ever cheering, and her little failings were so womanly, so clearly descending from pure goodness of heart, that they only made her more lovable. To see her taking with her into a ball-room all her natural purity and amiability, and thereby gaining universal homage to see her with the great, as she was with the

small-to see her bestowing the same beaming smile upon all mankind-was to remind one of the goodness of Heaven, sending its sunshine and its showers upon the just and upon the unjust.

CHAPTER VIII.

"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN." My brother found the Blantons full of crooks and oddities. Mr. Blanton was as particular as an old maid, and the queerest creature imaginable. He delighted in rare flower-beds, and pets of all kinds. He had any number of remarkable dogs, a raccoon for a bosom companion, and quite a menagerie of uncouth animals in subjection.

He was a stern disciplinarian in his household-a hard master, and at all times peevish and exacting. He was made up of notions, his notions, to which every body must bend. Therese, with her artless manner and perfect freedom, found herself somewhat trammelled here. Even her fascination could not overcome one of Mr. Blanton's established notions. Poor Adolphe was a tender-hearted little fellow, clinging to any body who was kind to him, and was very much spoiled by his

mamma.

Mr. Blanton had often remonstrated with Therese about what he considered her over-indulgence of her son, and had indeed undertaken to manage him himself. But the little fellow had walked upon one of Mr. Blanton's flower-beds, and he had beaten him severely. This was enough for Therese. She, upon the strength of this beating, informed Mr. Blanton that she wouldn't marry him if he were strung with diamonds from his head to his heels.

Nobody should whip Adolphe; nobody should take that liberty with her son, if he trampled all the flower-beds in the universe.

From all accounts, little Therese was up in arms about the matter, but had become somewhat subdued when Robert reached the Grove, as Mr. Blanton's residence was called.

"And where is your enemy?" Robert inquired, after listening for at least half an hour to Therese's lamentable story.

"Fortunately," said Therese, gravely, "he is being paid by Providence for his ungentlemanly conduct. No sooner had he beat my son than a whole row of discontented and enraged teeth commenced aching, and they have been aching ever since. The last I saw of him, he was stalking about his grounds, with his face bound up, grunting piteously."

"Then I needn't run him through with my sword?" said Robert.

"Oh, yes-I would have something done to him to make him know better. The ideathe bare idea of his whipping my little son! He to take my little fatherless boy, in his own house, and beat him until his little neck and arms were purple, and swollen in great streaks, and the tears running down his cheeks! If I had been a man— oh! if I had only been a man-I would have killed him on the spot, the monster! the brute!"

He

And my brother informed us that at these words Therese doubled her dimpled fists, and looked daggers at the window overlooking Mr. Blanton's flower-beds. Nobody ever knew or heard of her being as angry as she was on this occasion. She blazed away, and talked like a hero. Robert said she was fire and tow. She declared she would not stay in Mr. Blanton's house. He might beat her. had assurance enough to beat her, she really thought. During this happy interview, Mr. Blanton entered, bringing a rueful, peaked face, bound up in a red bandanna. He drew a chair-and Therese took Adolphe by the hand, and with a scornful, indignant air, walked off to the window, and stood thrumming away upon the window-pane.

"Mrs. Blanton," remarked the trainer of youth to Robert, "is highly offended with me, Mr. Rushton—and in justice to myself I must beg that you will listen to a few words on my side of the question."

"Really I must decline the honor, sir," said Robert, stiffly.

"But I insist-"

"No," said Robert, "I have neither the right nor inclination to interfere in your affairs, sir. I regret the unfortunate occurrence, and will bear your apologies to the Mrs. Blanton, sir, if you desire it." "She should apologize to me, sir!" "Oh!" said Robert.

"I repeat it, sir-Mrs. Blanton owes me an apology for her behavior to me this morning. She has insulted me, sir, in my own house. She has been managing this boy of hers, sir, until he has gotten beyond all control. She insists upon indulging him and spoiling him, until really I am obliged to interfere. She is very young, and very volatile, and very foolish, and what can she know about managing a son?"

"She has had at least as much experience as either of us," said Robert, laughing.

"Still, sir, she knows nothing in the world about it. One must have firmness to manage children. One must be systematic, and lay down rules for them which

they should not be permitted, on any account, to break. Adolphe knew it was wrong to go on that flower-bed; I had told him so repeatedly. He knew very

well it was wrong, and yet, when he thought I was out of sight he viciously galloped backwards and forwards on it, kicking and neighing like a horse."

"Indeed!" said Robert, bowing gravely. "He is an obstinate, wilful boy, and will give any person trouble who has the management of him."

Robert had civility enough to give an "ah!" at this clause.

"I tell you, Mr. Rushton," cried Adolphe, who had been deeply interested in Mr. Blanton's account of his unruly proceedings, "I galloped over those flowers for fun!"

Blanton scowled, and the little fellow drew near to my brother, laid his hand upon his knee, and with an animated face, continued ; "I saw them all growing upon that bed so high, and John betted me I couldn't jump clear over the heads of the flowers, and I betted him two allys I could, and so I swung my arms just so, a long time, till I thought I could jump over, and when John said three, I jumped, and fell right into the middle, and rolled over and over upon them all, and when uncle saw me I was galloping away, like a racehorse."

Robert said the little fellow's countenance was beautiful as he stood at his knee, looking up to him, and telling him exactly how it was. "And did he tell you this, and you whipped him?" said Robert, lifting Adolphe upon his knee.

"I would hear nothing he had to say. He disobeyed my orders and that was enough."

"Will you excuse me for saying that I think you should have listened to his explanation ?"

Therese had now drawn near them, and sat down close by Robert. The youthful mother laid the little boy's cheek upon her own, and the tears filled her gentle eyes. Blanton, harsh and rigid as he was, was moved by these tears. He said

"Therese, I promised my brother on his dying bed to guard this boy-to instruct him, and correct him, as I would my own. I promised that your over-indulgence and childish fondness should not spoil him, and I am trying, through all opposition and misunderstanding, to keep my word." But, brother, you whipped him—you beat my boy! I heard his screams, and his trembling voice pleading for mercy, and I was not allowed to go near him; my boy-my fatherless boy-was cruelly beaten ! Oh, Mr. Rushton, my heart bleeds when I think of this! I would

have given the last dollar I had in the world, to have spared him those stripes! Oh, brother, if this be your guarding, your promised watching, spare me, oh spare me the agony of such as this! No, sir!" she cried, raising her head defiantly, “nobody under heaven shall correct my son in that way. My son has a heart, sir, a noble generous heart, quick and sensitive, with intelligence to understand any reasoning you can employ; and this boy, this pride of my heart, shall never, no never, be beaten with stripes!"

Therese was beautiful with the fresh tears on her cheeks, and her moist flashing eye. There was actually a glory and sublimity about her as she spoke. Robert said that he had an almost uncontrollable impulse to snatch these two treasures in his arms, and fly off with them as bold as an eagle. Therese had never shone out so clearly and splendidly as through these gem-like tears.

"Very well, madam," said Mr. Blanton, "I have my duty to perform, and I will do what I think is right."

"You may do as you please, sir, with your dogs, or your crow, or your Egyptian hens, or your opossum, or your raccoon," said Therese, running over Mr. Blanton's private menagerie, "but my son, sir, you can touch again if you dare!"

Here Robert felt very awkward, and he said

"It seems that you both have the little boy's good at heart; I am sure he will not require correcting again. I say, Adolphe, will you ever run over your uncle's flowers again, exactly like a race-horse?"

"No, sir; but I am going with you and Sap home."

"And leave your mamma?" said Robert.

He

"Uncle does not whip mamma. loves mamma, and sometimes he tries to hug and kiss her-don't he, mamma?”

Adolphe was getting on forbidden ground again, and Robert said that really there seemed to be nothing but flower-beds for that dear boy. This was all we learned of the conversation. Robert came home sad, and yet happy. He had patched up matters as well as he could at the Grove; and had taken that favorable opportunity to make quite a comfortable arrangement for himself. My brother seemed to have grown older after this. He was not so frivolous, and light-hearted. He was more tender and thoughtful. He was uneasy about his darling Therese. He feared the petted woman on whom the world had delighted to smile, had rather an unpleasant home. He feared Blanton's harshness might tarnish the fair picture on

which he so loved to dwell; that his stern discipline might cloud the serene brow, and dispel the freshness and artlessness of this fairy-like creature. He loved her for her faults, her very fickleness, her lightness, and her simplicity of heart. He would not have had that lion-lunged man to meddle with these fragile beauties and mar them, for worlds. Therefore, my brother was thoughtful. In the long summer days, he dreamed, and revelled in castles shining bright, and crystal-like, in the clear blue air. He was enveloped in love and poesy, his kind heart was overflowing with tenderness and joy. Mamma's heart was with her boy. And there was no more beautiful sight under heaven than the patient mother, sitting with his head upon her lap, in the long warm days, running her slender fingers through the chestnut curls she had loved and trained from babyhood, and listening to his plans, and his hopes, and his fears, as he told them still to her.

In a few weeks Robert had another letter from Therese, informing him that Adolphe was sick, and that she was very unhappy. My brother determined to go again to Therese, and this time he took me with him.

After a pleasant morning's drive, we reached the Grove, and were shown to a quiet room, where we found Therese sitting by a low bed, on which Adolphe, with flushed cheek and glittering eye was lying.

When she saw us, she covered her face and wept. Miss Blanton spoke very kindly to her, and Mr. Blanton looked sorrowful and troubled.

"My darling," said Therese, bending over the bed and caressing his little hand, "here are Mr. Rushton, and dear Miss Rushton, whom you love so much."

But the bright glittering eye was unchanged, and no intelligent glance returned the fond mother's appealing look. Again Therese covered her face and sobbed. Mr. Blanton led her gently away from the bedside, and placing her on a lounge, whispered a few words, but they could not comfort poor Therese.

I took the mother's place beside the little boy, and cooled his burning_brow, and rubbed his little hands. Poor Robert

was so overcome by Therese's distress, that he could neither say nor do any thing. In silence we sat around the low bed, while the irregular wheezing of the little sufferer was painful to hear. He was in great pain, and his little hands wandered uneasily to his chest, as though there was something oppressive there. The physician, who had been in the adjoining room asleep (for they had been up all

night with Adolphe), came in and felt his pulse.

"Doctor, is he no better?" asked Therese, anxiously.

"He will be better when the blister draws, madam."

"Oh, do tell me he is a little better!" cried Therese.

For three hours we sat around the little bed, watching for light in the dark, dilated eye, while the mother, by every gentle aid, sought to bring back the little spirit to its home. In vain she called upon his name, and pressed her lips upon his own. The breath came painfully and quick, and the intense, unnatural eye was fixed. At last, I felt his hand grow moist within my own, and his lips were moving. Therese bent her ear and hung over him, to hear him say "mamma." She raised her eyes to heaven, and her illuminated face proclaimed the intense thankfulness of her heart.

"My son, our good God has heard my prayer," she said, kissing him over and over again. At these words he clasped his little hands, and instinctively commenced, in faint, low tones, "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, &c." He finished his prayer, taught him by the earnest-hearted little mother, and then he placed his arm about her neck, and there were moist eyes around the little bed. Robert, who had been sitting apart at the window, came and sat down by the bed, and kissed the darling boy, and Therese gave him her hand with a grateful, tender look.

But though the fever was somewhat abated, Adolphe was very weak. His little hands, once so plump and dimpled, were thin and transparent-his eyes were large and hollow. He was patient and uncomplaining. Like his mother, so gentle and grateful, thanking us sweetly for every thing, and talking in his simple, childish way: "Mamma, where is old Punch?"

"Old Punch has been in very many times, looking for his little master," said Therese, cheerfully.

"He misses me, I know. I wonder if he knows I'm sick, mamma?"

"He feels that you are sick; old Punch feels that something is the matter with our boy, for he goes whining about the house, and is not happy and frisky like he used to be," said Therese, smoothing back his hair.

Robert said old Punch was lying at the door, looking inquiringly at all who passed. He opened the door, and the great dog came in and went straight to the bed.

"Poor fellow!" said Adolphe. Punch

"Why, old dog!" cried the boy, stretching his arms around his great white circled neck. The sagacious creature was proud of this. He stood with his white paws upon the edge of the bed, and his nose upon the pillow, and kept slowly opening his eyes and shutting them in excess of happiness, and getting closer and closer to his little master, until in his joy he licked the boy's forehead, and put his paws upon his neck, and seemed scarcely to know how to show his delight and his affection.

"Mamma, he wants me to get up and go with him."

"He must wait until you are strong enough," said Therese, placing her hand on the dog's head, who laid his nose back upon the pillow, "and then we'll go with dear old Punch, to play on the garden falls."

"Not on the flower-beds, mamma."

"No, not on the flower-beds,” said Therese, her face coloring, "but on the high green falls, where the cherry limbs hang so low."

"The black-heart cherries? I know which tree that is."

"Yes, Punch knows the tree too."

"I can climb up that tree, mamma." "You can! When you get strong enough, I will push you up that tree.”

"There is a cat-bird nest up there. John held me up, and I peeped into it. The old cat-bird stays there all day."

"I know-and mocking-birds, and jay birds too. We will go there some of these fine days, you, and I, and Punch. But my little boy must sleep some now.' "Somebody must sing to me; mamma, you sing."

And Therese, so earnest in her devotion, sang a soft lullaby for her boy. He turned over and nestled close to her, and she sang the baby song she always sang to him when he slept. Robert was too weakhearted for such tender scenes.

He was

a very woman in his nature, and he stole away, while the mother sang in liquid tones, though her eyes were filled with

tears.

The next day we hoped the dear child was better, and Robert and I concluded to return home. Therese drew my brother to the window, and asked if he would do her a favor. Of course Robert was ready and anxious to do any thing he could for her.

"My dear Therese, we all sympathize with you," said Robert.

"I know, oh I know you do. You have all been more than kind. But your mother-she knows the sorrow of my heart. She told me of her little boy-her first-born-and showed me his little grave. I have thought of all this in the long, still hours, when I've been watching him. He is not like himself. He grows purer, and more tender, and so thoughtful. Heaven may be drawing him, gently drawing my boy away!"

"We must hope for the best, my dear Therese," said Robert, pressing her hand, while the tears came to his eyes. She turned to the bed, and took the limp hand which was reaching to her.

We went home and sent mamma to poor Therese.

In a week mamma wrote:

"The little boy grows visibly worse. I think, with poor Therese, that he is being gradually drawn to heaven. He is very feeble. His little frame is wasted to a shadow, and his eyes are very bright-too bright for earth. I have comforted the mother all I could, but this is the Father's work: I cannot bid her be comforted, but there is One greater than I, who will teach her that all is for the best." And in a postscript, she said Adolphe was dead. The little spirit had retured to its Home, and the pride of the mother's heart was in Heaven.

Poor little Adolphe!

Poor Therese was left with mamma. And she glided about our house, carrying her great sorrow in her gentle bosom, and looking up to us through her tears. Louise would take her hand at evening and walk far away, and try to win her

back to life. Mamma, with gentle thought, would bid her take the keys, and go on errands for her, that she might, for a moment, forget her loss. And Í would try to do my part by talking,-not cheerfully, but a shade more cheerfully than any of us felt, that by degrees we might call her away from her great and constant grief. Papa, too, had a gentle thought for her and would come in from squirrel hunting, and calling her to him, would ask her to have the squirrels served up in her capital way for his dinner. Sometimes he would cry out from the Library, to Therese to mix his porter for him, or to prepare his toddy, or to do any thing, which he knew would please her.

Robert kept away. He felt more than all, but he could not approach her.

After a while, Therese said she must return to Mr. Blanton's. She could not desert them altogether. They were lonely and felt her loss, and missed, at every turn, the same little foot-fall which she mourned.

It was twilight, and the pensive mournful figure stole away from the quiet family circle to the grave of her darling boy. She had been gone an hour, and the heavy dew was falling on her bowed head. Robert was restless. He wanted to go to her, but how disturb her in the sanctity of her grief?

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